


no more lonely boy

by MayWilder



Series: cheesy country love song [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Country Singer Au, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Angst, Non-powered AU, Use of Dan+Shay lyrics, one-night stand, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayWilder/pseuds/MayWilder
Summary: "Oh," Peter hears himself whisper. "Holy shit."Harley Keener is gorgeous. Long fingers wrap around the neck of the sparkling black guitar, and a blinding smile lights up sharp features. Peter zeroes in on the man, taking in the wild blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes. His cheeks are already flushed and rosy, his skin golden, and his body lithe and muscular. He looks like a rustic prince charming that's fallen out of a story book. His black t-shirt dips enough to reveal a tattoo of some kind of tree on his left pec. Between that, the blue jeans, and the boots, he's a beautiful sort of cliche country boy.And yet.Peter is mesmerized.***or, a one night stand that isn't really a one night stand.
Relationships: Background Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, background Ned Leeds/Betty Brant
Series: cheesy country love song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653304
Comments: 35
Kudos: 356





	no more lonely boy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm back from the dead with yet another cheesy story that nobody asked for. I use many lyrics from Dan+Shay songs because I cannot write my own lyrics. Thus, Harley is basically Dan+Shay. There is also a song called "Smalltown Boy" by Bronski Beat that I used. I lay no claim to those lyrics!

Peter doesn't even know where to begin. 

The guy standing next to him smells like beer. He's wearing a cowboy hat, and has his hand in his girlfriend's back pocket with a lewd grin on his face as he waits. 

From tiny speakers above the crowd plays a painfully twangy song Peter's only heard a few times since becoming friends with Betty. 

There's a sea of flannel despite the heat in the room (which means there's a sea of sweat, and it is seriously getting to Peter's nose. He’s from New York and very accustomed to the too-humid crowded spaces that come with that. This, though, is something entirely different. It’s heavy, tinged with cheap beer, and just.. _.gross._

He surveys the stage, taking in the wooden paneling across the back. **_Harley Keener_** is written across it in a messy scrawl. There's a banjo, a real piano, a few mics, and what seems to be a cup holder attached to the front microphone stand. There's a rustic, sort of manly feel to the stage set up, screaming "country boy." The only thing that doesn't make sense is the guitar with a sparkling black face. It doesn't even remotely fit the rest of the decor. 

Betty must see him eyeing the guitar, because they lean over to him. "This guy is the first openly gay country singer that's making his way up the ladder in the industry. There was a problem awhile back with a critic mocking him and saying something about he might as well cover himself in glitter or some shit, so he bought a sparkly guitar as kind of a 'fuck you' and plays it with every show." 

"I can appreciate that," Peter mumbles, looking around the crowd. "But what I don't appreciate is the smell."

"Oh!" Betty giggles. They move their hands to their clutch-purse-thingy and pull out what looks like a thin tube of perfume. "I made this little scent dampening stuff in chem earlier this week. Ned thinks these things smell awful, and I do too, so this should filter some of the sweat smell out for you.”

Peter feels a rush of affection wash over him as he takes the oil from Betty. They're the best kind of friend, always taking care of everyone around them, and he knows this is one of the reasons he loves them—and why he is at _country_ concert in a _country_ bar that Ned had to drop out of at the last minute. 

"Thanks, Bet," he smiles. Popping off the cap, Peter rolls the oil onto the edges of his nostrils. There's a little tingling effect before he takes a deep breath through his nose and feels it wash through his airway. Suddenly, the sea of sweat turns much duller. “Damn, Bet, you’re a genius. You need to get this stuff to my dad.”

“It has, like, no use besides here.”

“Do you know how many people don’t like smelling gross things?”

They're going to respond, but as the lights over the audience dim out, their eyes widen in excitement. Peter chuckles as Betty takes his hand and turns towards the stage. Following their gaze, he feels a spot of dread settle into his stomach as a guitarist lifts the electric to his body and strums a few chords. 

"Oh my god," a girl behind Peter squeals. "Oh my god, he's coming!"

The drummer follows, grinning as she pulls sticks from her back pocket and jogs to the drum set. The bassist is next, her smile infectious and her wave excited. After the pianist slides into his place, running his hands over the keys, the crowd yells even louder. 

And then, onto the stage, steps Harley Keener. 

"Oh," Peter hears himself whisper. "Holy _shit_."

Harley Keener is gorgeous. Long fingers wrap around the neck of the sparkling black guitar, and a blinding smile lights up sharp features. Peter zeroes in on the man, taking in the wild blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes. His cheeks are already flushed and rosy, his skin golden, and his body lithe and muscular. He looks like a rustic prince charming that's fallen out of a story book. His black t-shirt dips enough to reveal a tattoo of some kind of tree on his left pec. Between that, the blue jeans, and the boots, he's a beautiful sort of cliche country boy. 

And yet. 

Peter is mesmerized. 

"Y'all are a damn good lookin' crowd tonight, how ya feelin'?" the man asks into the mic. The crowd—including Betty—gives a roar of excitement. "Well, Queens, I gotta say that I am so glad you're havin' me tonight. We got a great show planned for you. It alright if I get it started?"

More screams. 

Peter is barely paying attention to them anymore. 

_I couldn't help but notice_

_You were sitting by yourself_

_Dropping limes in a Corona_

_Like you're trying to get over somebody else_

_It's funny how your story sounds a little like mine_

_Oh, cause' I've been at a table_

_With a bottle peeling labels to pass the time_

Harley Keener sings somewhere on a scale between _telling you a secret_ and _confessing my love for you_. His southern twang filters through naturally, but the words are clear and enunciated. Peter finds himself a little entranced by the heavy look in the singer's eyes as he scans the crowd, singing personally to each and every person there. 

_We should be alone together_

_Kissing over there in the corner_

_Where nobody else can see_

_Keeping each other company_

_We should be alone together_

_Leaning up against my car door_

_Parked outside on the street_

_Where it's just you and me_

_We should be alone together_

As he plays, the country star's hands move as if he isn't even thinking about it. He's at home with a guitar in his hands, listening to a crowd sing his own lyrics back at him. His shoulders move with the music, the rest of his body following the flow of the beat without making him miss a single chord or word. It's effortless. Like breathing, it seems. 

Peter watches, the knot of dread in his stomach dissipating with every second, and he wishes he could explain what it is about this man that's entrancing him. There's just this pull in Peter's chest, this awe at how in love with music this man is and how he's able to turn a smile on the crowd and make everyone fall over themselves in adoration. 

It's inhuman. 

_Or maybe,_ Peter thinks, watching the song end, and Harley Keener reach for his beer, _it's completely human to fall for a complete stranger on a stage. After all, millions of people do it every day._

"Only at a country show would someone have a cup of beer in a holder on their nightstand," Betty laughs. It draws Peter's attention back to them. There must be some sort of fascination over his face because they give him a small pat on his shoulder. "Oh dear."

"He's…"

"Yes." Betty turns back to the singer as he talks to the crowd. "We are all subject to his charms." 

Peter just nods. 

“Wanna get closer?”

Peter nods again. 

The next song starts, and Peter knows he’s in trouble from the gravely tone that echoes from the stage, no instruments behind him for the first few bars. Then his fingers start picking at the guitar and Peter’s heart jumps up through his throat. He and Betty ease through the crowd, Peter unable to look away and barely registering the grumpy looks of disapproval as he eases forward. 

_Let me leave a little taste on your lips_

_A little chill running under your skin_

Harley Keener looks _too_ good, hips swaying slightly as he sings into the mic with a smirk that means he knows who he is. He knows what he’s doing and how he looks. How can he not, when every girl in the room has deflated with their eyes closed, only three songs in and already making the hair on Peter’s arms stand up because there is _hunger_ and _want_ in the audience. A few sultry notes and the star has the room wrapped around his fingers. 

_Let me leave a little song in your head_

_Make you dance in the dark like you're still in my arms_

_Boy, I wanna be what keeps you up at night_

_So, when it's a quarter past three still thinking 'bout me_

_Boy, I wanna be what keeps you up at night_

_Tossing and turning, head spinning, like you're dizzy off of red wine_

_Oh, I wanna kiss you 'til I can't get off your mind_

_Boy, I wanna be, wanna be, what keeps you up at night_

As Peter and Betty make it to the front of the stage, the singer drops his eyes to the movement and catches sight of Peter. His little grin stretches a little wider and he runs his tongue over his bottom lip before stepping back to strum, eyes closing and head falling back for just a moment to let the music wash over him. 

Peter can’t look away, and when Harley Keener comes back to the microphone, their eyes are locked on one another.

_So when you're wide awake_

_And I'm the only thing on your brain_

_Just call and I'll be there to fall right in your sheets_

Harley Keener throws him a wink, and Peter is gone. 

**)-(**

Harley Keener does not believe in love at first sight, but there has to be _something_ at first sight. The moment he catches sight of brown eyes and pink cheeks, his heart stutters in his chest and the rest of the room kind of blurs out. There’s a boy at the front of the stage, looking up at Harley in surprise. He looks like he’s fallen into the same sort of enchantment Harley’s always used to seeing on his fans’ faces. The difference is, Harley thinks he’s looking at the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen in his life. 

When Harley continues singing and throws a wink at the boy, he’s pleased to see him duck his head with a little smile. Harley wonders at all the things he could say to get the surprised reaction from the boy. Is he shy? Curious? Embarrassed cause he isn’t into guys?

But then those bambi eyes rake over Harley’s body with a little nibble to his lips and he knows, to some extent, the other boy feels the same thread of attraction that he does. 

The song ends and Harley runs his fingers through his hair with a little laugh. The audience is too generous, cheering and screaming, and its _good._ Harley thrives off of this connection. The people who know his music and love his music, feel some kind of bond with him over the lyrics and chords. Whether it's a song about heartbreak, first love, or that pain of leaving his home, these people sing with heart. They understand. They feel what he feels, for a little bit. 

“God, I love music,” Harley sighs dramatically, practically moaning. He swings his guitar behind his back and grasps the mic with both hands. “Don’t you guys just _fucking love it_?”

He gets cheers of agreement. 

“Tonight,” he tells them. “Tonight is about me and you, y’all. I don’t care if its a song about pain, love, or throwing back a couple cold ones, I want this to be about us. For just a couple hours, you have me completely and I have you. That sound like a good time to y’all, or is that just me?”

More cries of joy. 

“Alright, babes,” he feels his grin stretch wide across his lips. “Let’s fall in love, yeah?”

He swings his guitar back around, strikes a chord, and falls into bliss. 

The rest of the night proceeds as it almost always does. Harley plays all his songs, breaks for some conversation, plays a few covers, and ends with a sweet little love note to his audience. He feels almost high on the energy of the people around him, coming from the exchange of attention and the music in the air. God, it’s good, and _God_ , the boy at the front of the stage with Bambi eyes and his lip between his teeth is still alarmingly beautiful. 

“Alright, my beautiful darlin’s,” Harley breathes, letting himself pout. “This date is coming to an end, sadly.”

Boos from the crowd. 

“I know, I know,” Harley assures them. “I thought it was going great, you know? I was gonna take you to dinner, meet your parents, get a little house on the hill with a garden...oh, oof. Too soon? Too gay? Too soon _and_ too gay?”

The audience laughs, and Harley blows them all kisses. “Alright, New York. You guys have been beautiful and amazing and I hope we can all see each other again. For now, I love you dearly.”

He steps back and hands his guitar to Mason. He and Emma are going to sing the next song with nothing but the guitar. He eases a little closer to the front of the stage, taking the final swig of his beer and looking back into the crowd. 

The music starts, and he does pretty well focusing on the entire crowd. He makes eye contact with several people, engages with them and continues the exchange he’s had going all night. It’s hard, though, when he catches sight of those brown eyes and can't pull his gaze away. By the time he’s starting the second verse, he’s helpless to look anywhere else. 

_It started when you said hello_

_Just did something to me_

_And I've been in a daze_

_Ever since the day that we met_

_You take the breath out of my lungs_

_Can't even fight it_

_And all of the words out of my mouth without even trying_

The other boy is looking back at him just as earnestly. He’s not singing along, but he’s engaged in Harley singing and stepping as close as he’s able, the top part of his body leaning forward just so. 

_It’s just us,_ Harley thinks with a hitch in his throat. _Nobody else really exists._

_I'm speechless_

_You're standing there in that dress_

_Boy it ain't a secret_

_'Cause watching you is all that I can do, oh_

_I'm speechless_

_You already know that you're my weakness_

_After all this time I'm just as nervous_

_Every time you walk into the room_

_I'm speechless_

God, Harley dips his hips just so and can’t help but sing to the boy in front of him. He needs him to know, needs him to feel what he feels…

_Every time you walk into the room_

_I'm speechless_

_Oh, you know it--_

And, with a startled shout, he falls off the stage and into the arms of a beautiful boy. 

**)-(**

Peter sits on a couch in the loft area of the bar, completely surprised by the turn of events. One moment, he’s staring into the blue eyes of a too-cute country singer, and the next, said country singer is sitting in his arms, hands twisted into his shirt and breathless. Apparently, that’s enough to earn you a place backstage with Harley Keener. 

_“Hi,” Harley Keener whispers._

_“Hello,” Peter squeaks out. The singer smells like whiskey and smoke, falling into the perfect cliche Peter already had in his mind. “You okay?”_

_“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Thanks for catching me, handsome.”_

_“Anytime.”_

_Harley beams at Peter. He opens his mouth to say something before security guards are pulling Harley away and the singer is waving to the crowd and telling everyone how much he loves them. People all around Peter crowd around in excitement. **You touched him!** and **How did he smell?** and **Oh my god he smiled at you!** bombard him. It's definitely too many people focused on Peter. Thankfully, Betty takes his hand and starts pulling him away, fighting off anyone who approaches with a ferocious snarl. _

_They’re almost towards the exit when a tall man in a cowboy hat stops them. “Excuse me, sir? Mr. Keener would like to thank you again, in person.”_

_“Oh,” Peter says. “Um--”_

_“It’ll only take a second, if you come with me.”_

So here he waits, glass of whiskey he doesn’t actually like in his hand, and people he doesn’t know surrounding him. Betty stayed at his side for all of ten minutes before the drummer (who turned out to be Harley Keener’s sister) dragged them away to talk about life at Columbia. He’s now stuck between wanting to see the singer again and wanting to leave as quickly as possible. 

“Helllllooo there.”

Peter looks up. In front of him is a guy about his age, a confident smirk in place as he walks to plop next to Peter. His movement on the couch causes Peter’s drink to spill a bit, but the other guy doesn’t notice. “Um, hi?”

“You’re a cutie,” the guy says. “What brings you up here? You’re not part of Keener’s usual entourage.”

“Oh,” Peter swallows, a little uncomfortable at the thought. “I, uh, I caught him when he fell off the stage. I guess he wanted to thank me or something.”

“So you joined the after party? Very nice.” he leans in closer. “I’m Jason. Nice to meet you.”

“L-Likewise,” Peter accepts the awkward handshake, bristling when he guy draws his hand to his mouth for a wet kiss. Peter laughs nervously and retracts his hand. Sticking his face in his cup, he takes a drink and lets the burn distract him from the too-heavy scent of the guys cologne. 

“So, Peter,” Jason presses closer. 

Peter goes rigid.

“I was thinking--

“Jason, how on God’s green earth did you get up here?” 

Peter thinks this is the best time Harley could have chosen to appear. He looks just as gorgeous as he had when he walked onto the stage, except now his eyeliner is a little smudged beneath his eyes and he looks grumpy at the sight of Jason leaning over Peter. 

“Peter and I were just--

“No, you were just leaving Peter alone. You wanna fight Phil again, or go peacefully this time?”

Jason scoffs, standing. “He’s not even that cute anyways, Christ.”

“I mean, that’s complete bullshit, but whatever. Leave, please.”

While Jason stalks towards the exit, Harley approaches hesitantly. He places himself a couple feet away from Peter and looks concerned. “I’m so sorry, he’s an ass. You okay?”

“Totally fine,” Peter answers. “He made me uncomfortable, but it takes a lot to really get under my skin. I should ask if you’re okay, though. You _did_ fall off your stage.”

“I’m perfectly fine, sweetheart,” Harley grins again. “I was lil’ caught up looking at you, honestly. Didn’t even see the edge.”

“I would have thought it was the beer.”

“Nah, you were the only thing I was drunk on,” Harley says without missing a beat. Peter actually laughs, ducking his chin in. Harley’s smile falters. “Fuck, that’s a good sound.”

The contrast of cheesy pick-up line and sincere compliment makes Peter’s stomach flip. “Um, thanks. You were really good, by the way. I’m not normally really into country music, but you’re a great performer.”

“Thank you,” Harley settles into the couch, looking surprised. “May I ask what brought you to my show, then?”

“My friend, Betty.” Peter motions across the room. “They’re the one talking to your sister right now. They don’t like coming to bars by themselves, so when their boyfriend couldn’t make it, I came with them.”

“And you enjoyed yourself? I’ll take that as a win.”

Peter finds himself smiling earnestly. He sits in silence for a moment, letting Harley look at him and feeling surprisingly comfortable under the gaze. There’s nothing creepy (like that Jason guy) but more...curious, as if he can’t figure something out. Peter tilts his head at the attention, waiting. 

“Peter,” Harley breaks the silence. “Do you wanna...go for a walk with me?”

Peter glances down at the fabric of the couch, considering. “Um, yeah. That would be nice.”

Harley stands, offering up a hand. Peter doesn’t think twice about taking it and being pulled into a standing position. He might be a little insane, going somewhere with a man he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to fight whatever it is that’s drawing him to Harley. There’s not an unwilling bone in his body as they pass the rest of the band and friends to head down a crickety-ass staircase. 

He might be relying too much on instinct, but he honestly can’t find it within himself to really care. 

“Shit,” Harley hisses when they step outside. He drops Peter’s hands to rub at his arms. “Forgot my jacket, distracted by you again. I gotta get a handle on that, huh?”

Peter laughs and shrugs out of his coat. “I don’t know, I think I like knowing I’m not the only one feeling a little flustered. Here.”

“Oh, you sure?” Harley blinks. 

“Yeah, I’m used to the cold,” Peter answers. “It was pretty warm in there, anyways.”

“Thanks, darlin’.” Harley takes the jacket, sliding it onto his shoulders. It’s a bit loose across the shoulders, but otherwise sets a fuzzy feeling through Peter’s stomach. “Whoa, that’s better. New York Januarys are kind of intense.”

“Are you one of those southern boys that can’t handle the cold?” Peter teases.

“Please, I’m from Tennessee. We get snow almost every year.”

“But you don’t get _New York_ snow.”

“Is it better up here?”

“A little harsher, but definitely prettier.”

“Yeah, a lot of things about New York are prettier than in Tennessee. Like you, for example.”

Peter lets out a breathy chuckle. “That should _not_ work.”

Harley chuckles too, reaching a hand out to graze Peter’s hand. “But it is, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter says softly, stopping their walk to look straight up at Harley. “It really is.”

And, before Peter knows what he’s doing, he’s kissing Harley Keener. 

Holy shit, its good. Harley tastes just like Peter expected. For the first time, he finds himself not caring about the nicotine and tobacco in a kiss because the flavor is on _Harley’s_ tongue. He's actually enjoying how it mixes with the whiskey he had earlier to burn slightly on his own lips. The little noise of appreciating he makes gets a reaction from Harley: his hands slide down over Peter's hips, gripping tightly and pulling them closer together so that Peter swears he can feel the heat of their chests through the fabric of their clothes. It’s intoxicating. 

Harley lets out a sort of whine in the back of his throat, making Peter’s head spin. He cups Harley’s cheeks, rising up in search of more and wondering how on earth he got here, how he turned into the guy who’s kissing someone he’s spoken to for five minutes and knows fuck-all about. 

“Fuck,” Harley breathes against Peter’s lips. “ _Fuck_ , Peter, what’s your last name?”

“Parker,” he giggles. “I’m Peter Parker.”

“Well, Peter Parker,” Harley giggles back, kissing him again. His teeth nip at Peter’s bottom lip and the sting shoots right down to Peter’s dick. “I’m about to ask a very stupid and very irresponsible question.”

“Please do.”

“Come back to my hotel room?”

Again, Peter goes with his gut, follows his instinct--he says _yes._

**)-(**

Harley wakes up to the sound of a kitchen timer. 

He feels that the bed next to him is empty, but the imprint of Peter’s head on the pillow is still partially there. Harley thinks he can’t have been gone that long. Blinking his eyes until they adjust more to the low light, he sees shadows from the hallway. “Peter?”

“Hey--fuck!” Peter’s voice drops as he hisses the curse. “Sorry! I burned my finger. I’ll be there in a sec. Do you want a water?”

“Sure,” Harley chuckles. He settles back into the sheets, stretching out and biting his lip as he checks his phone. There are a couple of texts from his sister and Phil, both saying they ‘handled’ his disappearance with a random guy from the after party. He tells them both how thankful he is and glances at the clock--3:12 am--before setting the phone aside. This is the first time in a while that he’s woken up pleased with the sex. Not like he doesn’t get good sex normally, but that there’s something different about this guy. It was...more. 

Harley knows it’s probably because there was an almost emotional element to the night before. Not that they really know each other well-enough for there to be something cosmic, but it's definitely something. Harley had never felt so connected to someone before, so understanding of what they wanted and needed without prior experience. The way they interacted felt like they’d had sex a million times, that Peter moved along every line of Harley’s body with comfort and familiarity. It was exciting and new and somehow also remarkably like home. 

“Hey,” Peter says softly, coming back into the room. He’s wearing boxer briefs and a stretched out sweater. “Pizza rolls are done!”

“Pizza rolls?” Harley chuckles. “Did you go scavenging for food?”

Peter tilts his head (and looks exactly like a perturbed pup). “You...asked me to make pizza rolls?”

Harley wrinkles his eyebrows. 

“Oh, shit.” Peter’s shoulders droop. “Were you sleeping or something? Did you not actually want these?”

“I was definitely asleep,” Harley laughs as he sits up. “But now that you’ve already made them…”

Peter shrugs and kind of...skips towards the bed, placing the plate of pizza rolls in front of Harley. He climbs on the bed and crosses his legs. Twisting his hands in his sweater, he smiles at Harley. “So.”

“So.”

“I’ve never done this,” Peter admits. “A, um, one night stand, I mean.”

Harley reaches for a pizza roll. “So you decided your first one would be with me? I’m honored.”

“I didn’t really think about it. You asked, and I just said yes.”

Harley does _not_ feel his stomach erupt into butterflies. “I’m glad you did, darlin’. I’m really glad you did.”

Peter reaches for a pizza roll, and smiles. “You can’t judge me on how I eat these.”

“And how is that?”

“Just....remember that you said you were glad I’m here…”

“Of course I--Peter, _what the living fuck?_ ”

**)-(**

“Yes, oh my god, fuck yes.”

“Harley.”

“You’re magic, sweetheart, absolutely magic.”

"Harley..."

"So fucking good, don't deserve you."

“I’m washing your _back_.”

Harley turns around, but his expression isn’t one of a joke. He looks completely earnest, with curls sticking to his forehead and water dripping from long lashes. Peter almost can’t breathe at the sight. “Okay, tell me.”

“Tell me what?”

“The magic hands,” Harley says. “Where did you learn to be an expert masseuse?” 

“My mom is a physical therapist,” Peter explains. He lifts a hand to Harley’s neck, letting his fingers find the right muscles. “I’ve learned what to do to bring comfort and relaxation to strained muscles.”

“Lucky me,” Harley moans, head tilting to the side so that Peter has better access. “Where do you even come from, Peter Parker?”

“Queens,” Peter teases. 

“God bless Queens,” Harley says. “You got anything else about you that’s magic?”

“Not that I’m aware of. But I feel like _you_ do.”

“Oh?”

“You’re a singer, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“So you have a talented mouth.”

“I do.”

“You should put it to use.”

**)-(**

“Does this have any significance?”

Peter is perched on Harley’s hips.. His hair is a curly, wet mess on his head, and he looks nothing short of pretty in the light of the room. Currently, his fingers are tracing the lines of Harley’s tattoo. Harley finds it difficult to focus on any conversation. 

“When I was fifteen,” he manages to say. “I stopped trying to not be gay and just kind of...accepted it. I didn’t flaunt it, but I didn’t exactly hide it. Just tried to live normally. There was this boy, James Greyson. He was the quarterback, gorgeous, king of our little small town. We had trig together--”

“You took trig when you were fifteen?”

“Betcha didn’t think this lil ole country boy could do trig over morning coffee, did ya?”

“You just got sixteen times hotter.” Peter leans down to his lips can travel over the tattooed tree roots. “Go on.”

Harley closes his eyes at the touch of the other man’s lips on his skin. “Um, yeah, anyways. I started tutoring him privately, noticed how he looked at me...and things progressed as I’m sure you could guess. We started dating, meeting up in private. It lasted for about a year. He was my first love and my first time, and I thought it might be able to work. Jimmy used to climb through my window at night and talk about how he was going to get a scholarship and get out of town. He’d become the first publicly gay professional football player and he would pay for me to go to school. We were going to live happily ever after.”

Peter hums thoughtfully. “I’m guessing none of that happened.”

“Definitely not,” Harley says. “Jimmy took a really bad hit in our championship game his senior year, my sophomore year. He lost all hopes of scholarship and his football career was gone. He was heartbroken, cried for about three weeks before he came to me and said he just couldn’t be gay in Rose Hill. He stopped talking to me. I felt more alone than ever, he started working at his dad’s lumber yard, and I didn’t know what to do. One particularly bad day led me to finding this oak tree on my granddaddy’s property. I spent a lot of time out there, writing and singing and playing my guitar. I wrote “Don’t Know How Not To” under that oak tree when on my seventeenth birthday, sad and in love and not allowed to be. The tattoo kind of reminds me where I’ve been, where I came from, and what I grew past. Also, Maggie drew it, and it was beautiful.”

“Do you wish things would have worked out?” Peter asks softly. 

“I’m not really one who likes looking at the past, but I thought about him a lot after I got out of town. Realistically, we never would have worked out. He wanted someone to stay at home and follow him around the country playing football. That was never going to be my life, even when I wanted to go to college. We would have broken up at some point, but while we were together? I did love him, and I wish things could have ended because we wanted them to and not because he wanted to live the rest of his life lying to himself and everyone around him. But, I dunno. I don’t judge him for keeping his secret. It wasn’t easy when people found out I was gay. He stayed and kept his secret, I was out and I ran away.”

“Rose Hill sounds terrible.”

“It is the _actual_ fuckin’ worst.”

Peter shifts enough to make Harley blink his eyes open. He looks up at the naked man, painfully gorgeous and so clearly himself, and thinks, _Being out has its challenges, but I wouldn’t be here without that...and I would give anything to be here right now._

**)-(**

“So, what are you in school for?” Harley asks, trailing his fingers over Peter’s back. He’s taken to running feather light touches over the other boys skin, and Peter melts under it. “You’re a scientist, right?”

“Biochemist, hopefully,” Peter sighs. “I just have to finish this semester and then I’m done.”

“What will you do?”

“Work at my father’s company, most likely.”

“The company?”

“Stark Industries.”

Harley pauses his path. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“Yeah,” he says. “My mom and my dad had a one night stand a long time ago. They raised me separately for awhile, but when I was about five, our families moved in together, and then my aunts and uncles moved into the mansion too. I have, like, a thousand parents.”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like.” Harley leans in close, drawing warmth from Peter’s skin. “My dad left when I was little and my mom didn’t want a gay son.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Harley resumes his actions and watches Peter’s eyes flutter closed. “My parents didn’t want me. So my sister and I left. And we did this instead. The small town boy who they used to bully is one day going to be someone they pay to see, all because they chased him out of town and sent him into the arms of music. Kinda poetic when you think about it.”

“You should write a song about it,” Peter suggests. 

“I actually did, when Abby and I first left,” Harley tells him. “But I haven’t produced it yet. It’s mine. Not theirs. Not yet, anyway.”

“I understand that,” Peter says. “I’ll be excited for whenever you do share it with the world, though.”

Harley tilts his head. “Maybe...maybe I can share it with _you.”_

**)-(**

Peter watches Harley pull out his guitar from the bed. The musician sits in a chair by the window of the hotel room, clearing his throat and tuning his guitar. Waiting under the covers, Peter twists his hands in his sweater nervously. He’s always thought musicians hate performing for an audience of one, that its weird, but Harley offered. That must mean it doesn’t make him uncomfortable, right?

“Okay,” Harley breathes. “Okay, I’ll just--right.”

“Hey, look at me,” Peter says, making sure his voice is soft. “You don’t have to be nervous about whatever you’re about to express. It’s...safe, here.”

Harley gives him a kind smile. “I know.” 

He starts picking out a soft melody, looking down at the guitar. 

_You leave in the morning with everything you own in a little black case_

_Alone on a platform, the wind and the rain on a sad and lonely face_

_Mother will never understand why you had to leave_

_But the answers you seek will never be found at home_

_The love that you need will never be found at home_

_Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away_

_Run away, turn away, run away, turn away, run away_

_Pushed around and kicked around, always a lonely boy_

_You were the one that they'd talk about around town as they put you down_

_And as hard as they would try they'd hurt to make you cry_

_But you never cried to them, just to your soul_

_No, you never cried to them, just to your soul_

Peter has tears streaming down his face as Harley finishes, closing the song out gently. He’s crying too, mouth twisted in something painful. They don’t talk, and Peter doesn’t try, but Harley looks miserable. He doesn’t move to wipe his eyes, he doesn’t take his hands off the guitar, he doesn’t look up. Peter wants to know what’s going through his mind, but he waits. 

“I haven’t--” Harley chokes, letting his guitar slide to the ground. Peter flinches at the noise. “I haven’t cried since I wrote this the night I left, and I-and I--”

Peter moves from the bed and across the room. He gently places the guitar on the couch as Harley succumbs to sobs. Peter stays standing, letting Harley wrap his arms around him while he cries into his stomach. It’s wretched, how shattered the other boy sounds. He’s a stark contrast to the man ten hours before, standing on stage and confidently falling in love with the audience. He’s broken and hurt and...incredibly exposed. 

“Come on,” Peter murmurs. “It’s alright, let it out.”

“I’m past this, I’m past them!” Harley shakes. “Why, why does it still affect me? I just want it gone, sweetheart, I just want it gone.”

Peter has nothing to offer Harley. He simply stands there, one hand on Harley’s back and the other raking through his hair. There’s nothing to do but let him cry. 

So he does. 

**)-(**

When Harley wakes up, he’s got Peter’s arm locked around his chest and their legs tangled together. The sky is dark again, and he knows they’ve slept through the entire day. It makes sense, since they were up until after sunrise. His muscles are stiff as if he’s been in bed too long. The backs of his knees are uncomfortably sweaty, and his stomach rumbles with the need for food. 

As he comes into awareness, Harley realizes that he was woken up by sounds outside the door. 

“I’m Tony Goddamn Stark, if I want you to let me in to see my son, you will.”

“You cannot just intrude on a guest, Mr. Stark.”

“My son is approaching the twenty four hour mark of having gone missing and nobody can reach him. This is the last place he went. You let me in that room, or my next stop is the NYPD.”

“Tony, baby--”

“Alright!” a woman says. There’s a click, Peter starts to sit up, and then someone is storming to the room. 

“Pete?” a man calls. “Peter, are you here?”

Peter sits up, eyes wide. “Fuck me, oh my god, _he did not_ \--”

Around the corner come two people Harley has seen on the news enough to recognize. Tony Stark and his husband Steve Rogers stand in the entrance of Harley’s hotel bedroom. He doesn’t know where to even begin with this. 

“What in the actual fuck, kid?” Tony snaps. “You couldn’t send a text? Answer a call? You made me have JARVIS sweep the whole goddamn city?”

“Tony,” Steve says in a gentle tone. “Let Peter explain.”

“I don’t have an explanation, Pops,” Peter says weakly. “I’m sorry. My phone died, and I just...got caught up.”

Steve goes to speak, but Tony steps forward. “Not good enough.”

“Dad!” Peter hisses. “I am sorry, I honestly am, but you can’t do this. So incredibly beyond uncool.”

“We were worried, Pete,” Steve cut in. “And your father…”

“Yeah.” Peter rubs his eyes. “But this is a cross of boundaries.”

“Boundaries?” Tony frowns. “What the hell are those?”

“Okay, but how did you get past my security?” Harley interjects. 

“We need to get you upgraded, boy,” Tony put his hands on his hips. “Anyways--

“We now know that you’re safe,” Steve cuts in. “And we are sorry for intruding, but you need to have a little grace with your father, okay?”

“Yeah. I know. Can we, like, meet you guys in the living room? Or anywhere that isn’t half-naked in a bedroom?”

“Yes,” Steve says quickly, stopping whatever Tony was going to say. “Just...put some clothes on, and please come home. It’s family movie night, and you already missed dinner.”

“You can bring…” Tony waves his fingers in the general direction of Harley’s form. “...this one to the movie. But do not be late. _One hour_.”

“I’ll see you then,” Peter turns puppy eyes on them. “I swear.”

Tony nods sharply and turns to walk out, while Steve waves awkwardly. “Sorry, boys.”

“It’s fine, Pops,” Peter mumbles. 

Once they’re gone, Harley looks over at Peter. The other boy groans obnoxiously and falls back into the pillows. Harley laughs. He lays on his side to be closer to Peter and reaches out to take his hand.

“Sorry.” Peter keeps his eyes closed. “I’m serious, I am so sorry. That was awful, but you have to understand. The last time I missed family dinner and couldn’t be found, it was because I was kidnapped for ransom. Dad gets a little weird about my safety.”

The fury in Tony Stark’s eyes now looks a little more like panic to Harley’s memory, and he nods. “I definitely understand. It’s okay, sweetheart, I promise.”

“Cool,” Peter says. He finally turns to look at Harley with wide brown eyes. “So, um, how do we do this?”

Harley quirks an eyebrow. 

“I told you I’ve never done a one night stand before. I don’t know how to do this.”

Harley looks down at those brown eyes, those kiss-chapped lips, the well-rested and well-fucked look about Peter, and the thought of never having him again seems unacceptable. His mind reels over the past few hours, over this random guy from a random bar holding him while he sobbed about his pathetic past and then holding him for hours after that...Harley can’t let this slide through his fingertips. 

“What if this wasn’t a one night stand?” Harley whispers.

Peter’s lips part slightly with a gasp. 

“Unless you don’t--I’m sorry.”

“No!” Peter rushes out. He rolls closer to Harley, cupping his face. “I was just surprised. I really like you, Harley, and...yeah, I’d love to get to know you better.”

Harley leans down to kiss Peter again. Peter responds eagerly, sliding his arms to wrap around Harley’s neck and pulling him closer. As they twist around each other once more, the voice is the back of Harley's mind cheering him on. It tells him to make sure this continues. Tells him to hold on and spend his time making sure Peter understands what he's opened up inside of Harley. 

“What are you thinking about?” Peter breathes as Harley drags his lips along his neck. “You went away for a second.”

“You, Peter,” Harley murmurs. “Something tells me I’m gonna be spending a whole lotta time thinking about nothing else.”


End file.
